Brilliant (8 page)

F  O  U  R  T  E  E  N

By ten-thirty, my day was done.

The bathroom glowed with candlelight and my tub, a footed affair, brimmed with bubbles. I sank beneath them and sipped a glass of champagne while Schubert’s little String Quintet in C Major played quietly in the background. My magnificent solitaire, the
Pasha of St. Petersburg
, lolled lazily across my breasts reflecting the soft light like a small setting sun, while the bracelet purloined from Lady Melody sparkled from my wrist. Her engagement ring gleamed from my pinkie finger, and a tight fit at that—she must have had tiny hands. Pikaki mist perfumed the air.

I unclasped the bracelet and drew it slowly across my forearm. It was one of the most fastidiously constructed pieces I’d ever seen. It moved as easily as a satin ribbon, every curl flashing and catching fire. The diamonds were among the most perfect, and perfectly matched, I’d ever seen as well. I couldn’t stop looking at them through my loupe. Each was D Colorless Flawless. VVV1. In other words: perfect. The oval clasp was the size of a small egg and encrusted with diamonds of various shapes and sizes, known as a melee. I studied it closely and noticed a tiny latch, invisible to the naked eye. I slid the latch down with my nail and the top of the clasp popped open. It was a locket. It concealed a miniature painting. It looked like Prince Albert, his dreamy blue, hound-dog eyes gazing longingly at me. The work had the most exquisite detail, as fine as a colored photograph. It was a masterpiece. The thought crossed my mind that nothing could be so beautiful but the original. But that would be impossible. The Queen Mother had owned that, so this couldn’t possibly be the real thing. Or could it?

Now wouldn’t that be something?

I put the loupe down and picked up my champagne and considered the possibilities. The late Queen Mother’s jewelry collection was among the most valuable and renowned in the world, containing many exquisite pieces, some better known than others. This bracelet, for instance, while not particularly well-known to the public, was a family favorite. But . . . the Queen Mother had liked to gamble. Her racing debts were almost as legendary as her jewelry. Could she have sold the original and hers was actually a replica? She and Lady Melody, while not contemporaries, were close friends. Is it possible she sold it quietly to her pal for a big pile of secret cash? No.

I studied the maker’s mark. Garrard, 1850.

I laughed out loud. This was ridiculous. Lady Melody must have paid a fortune to have some disreputable jeweler make such a detailed copy. Garrard would never agree to construct an exact replica—they’d lose their warrants and their reputation.

And if it were the real thing. So what? What difference could that make to me? None. I had no provenance.

Closer examination turned up no personal messages engraved in the setting. It was simply the most beautiful vivid, erotic piece of jewelry I’d ever seen.

The diamond engagement ring was a stunner as well, but on closer examination, the stone, which had superior color and clarity, paled in comparison to the quality of the stones in the bracelet. How good was it? Very, very good. Distinctive? Not really. It was a commercial, retail piece, nothing particularly special or distinguishing in spite of the size and quality of the diamond. It was the sort of item that would be bought at auction by a dealer for the breakdown value. It would be remade. Possibly even recut. The ring bore the maker’s mark of Graff, who, if the piece were brought to his attention, could easily identify it and who the original owner was, most likely Lady Melody herself.

So, the question was: Should I sell them through a private dealer or break them down myself and take the stones to my vault in Geneva? I couldn’t take my eyes off the bracelet. Anyone who broke it down should be shot. But one of my hard and fast rules was break a piece down or sell it, immediately. I never took the chance of being caught with stolen goods in my possession. This might be an exception.

I studied it and studied it. If I kept it, where would I wear it? My place in Provence where I planned to retire? No. Nobody wore jewelry like this in the country. And exactly when was this retirement going to come around, anyhow? Talk about a moving target. I was now at least two months behind schedule. I loved Provence with all my heart, I was happier there than anywhere. Why didn’t I just go there and disappear? It would be so easy.

I’d had my little farm outside of St. Rémy de Provence, near the village of Éygalières, for fifteen years. As far as the United Kingdom is concerned, I’m an ex-pat American national who has her passport renewed at the American Embassy every ten years and who’s lived in the same Belgravia residence for thirty-four years, pays British taxes, and flies to her second home outside Marseilles for Christmas, Easter, and August, where she is a taxpaying, land-owning, French visitor in good standing.

That’s one reality. The other is that I use false Liechtenstein papers to travel in and out of England on my frequent jewelry-related business trips, portraying me as Léonie Chaise, a dowdy, middle-aged, Geneva-based international executive in the steel industry. Léonie Chaise has a pied-a-terre in Liechtenstein and is on the road all the time. I maintain her identity the whole time I’m traveling because the number of times I go in and out of England would not be possible or feasible for Kick Keswick, and they’d also be nobody’s business.

F  I  F  T  E  E  N

The downstairs buzzer rang, and I almost had a heart attack. It was ten-forty-five. I ignored it. But whoever it was, was persistent. It rang again and again. I hefted myself out of the tub, wrapped a towel around me, and instead of reopening the workroom to check the screens, I went to the front hall.

“Yes?” I snapped into the quaint intercom. “Who is it?”

“Kick. It’s me.”

The voice sounded familiar. “Me, who?”

“Owen Brace.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

“Can I come up?”

“Of course,” I answered. “First floor. Flat B.”

Presumably he’d forgotten to give me some papers or correspondence or something he needed first thing Monday morning, although I couldn’t imagine what. That’s what faxes and e-mails are for. By the time I opened my door, I’d put on a thick terrycloth robe and a little lipstick. The bracelet and ring were back in the safe.

Owen was holding on to the neck of a bottle of champagne and seemed slightly tipsy. “I’m sorry to barge in at this hour; I hope I didn’t waken you.”

“No, no, come in. I thought you were having dinner with Céline.”

“I was, but I couldn’t take it anymore. She ran into some friends at the bar, and I left her there. I’m sick of conversations with coked-up models who only have first names and no knowledge of life before 1989.”

“You mean they studied the Gulf War in history class?”

“Exactly.” He laughed. “If they’ve even heard of the Gulf War. Most of them are illiterate.”

He pushed past me and walked down the hall into my sitting room and crossed directly to one of the sets of double doors that opened out onto Eaton Square Garden. He smelled brisk and citrusy, and faintly of tobacco.

“This is nice.”

“Yes, thank you,” I said. “You sound surprised.”

“I suppose I am. Isn’t that a Boule desk?”

“Yes, it is. I’m surprised you recognized it. You must have been studying up.” The bowlegged console—its gold ormolu bumpers, red enamel, tortoise trim, and brass overlay in perfect condition—sat in front of the windows. I always keep a vase of white flowers—lilies, lilacs, French tulips, hydrangeas—on its corner. Tonight they happened to be roses and jasmine.

“Smells like a whorehouse in here.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Just kidding.” He shrugged out of his raincoat and tossed it on the sofa. I picked it up and hung it on the rack in the hall.

I’d worked hard to get my apartment just the way I wanted it, carefully collected its contents, until it resembled, overall, a three-room jewel box. My own Demi-Parure, if you will, to use an archaic jewelry industry term that describes three matching pieces: a brooch, earrings, and necklace. A Parure, itself, has five, including a tiara and a bracelet.

“What can I do for you, Owen? I’m sure you’re here for a reason, other than adult conversation.”

He held up the bottle. “Do you have any glasses?”

“No.”

“You don’t have any glasses?”

“Of course I have glasses, Owen.”

He followed me into the kitchen and sat on one of the stools. “Did you see Tina’s press conference? David left me a message that I should watch—said he’s got it all covered, whatever that means. It’s supposed to be on again at eleven. He sent a video to the hotel, but I didn’t have time to watch.” I set two flutes on the counter. “Do you have anything to eat?”

“Sure. Wait till I get some clothes on. I’ll be right back.”

Well now, wasn’t this a situation? Naturally, it was nothing like my nocturnal visits from Sir Cramner, and I certainly didn’t plan to slip into a negligee. Owen Brace and I were contemporaries, and although he wasn’t aware of it, I didn’t need his approval or his money. I opted for comfort, and pulled on the cashmere warm-up suit.

It was startling to see a man in my kitchen again, especially such a handsome, vigorous one who looked so totally at home. A man with some Sir-Cramner-color in his face unlike the sepulchral Ballantine gray that had matched Benjamin’s suits and complexion. Owen’s jacket hung on the back of a chair. He’d rolled up the sleeves on his white dress shirt and loosened his tie. His banker’s shoes shone, and his suit pants hung straight, held in place by silvery gray damask suspenders with a shadow of pound signs discreetly woven in. Owen was in beautiful condition. He was of medium-tall build, fit and trim, flat stomach, longish hair smoothed back. His eyes moved constantly, like a wolf’s, and he had a quick, friendly, disarming smile that he turned in my direction when I walked in. The TV set was on, and he was fixing Brie and cold roast beef sandwiches on sliced baguettes.

“This is great. You can’t imagine how great it is to open someone’s refrigerator and find some actual food inside. Usually it’s just a couple of yogurts and a bottle of Evian. Well”—he picked up his flute— “cheers and thanks.”

“My pleasure.” My tone was as neutral as my attitude.

“You’re quite the gardener.” He tilted his head past the breakfast nook in the direction of the terrace garden, which was always in bloom with one sort of thing or other. “What’re those things?”

“Sprouts.”

“Huh. You didn’t strike me as the sprout type.”

“Well, I’m full of surprises, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, you are.” He smiled again. “It’s unexpected.”

“That’s why they’re called surprises. Oh, here she is.”

Tina’s face, mostly hidden behind her white-rimmed, signature dark glasses, filled the screen. Owen punched up the sound.

“We had a terrible row,” she said into a bank of microphones on the front steps of their former love nest, Chihuahuas tucked in her arms like little pop-eyed Beanie Babies. “I tried to leave, I’ve been afraid of him since the day we married. But”—she began to cry—“I couldn’t take it anymore, and he got so angry, he hit me.” Tina gingerly pulled off the dark glasses to reveal a black eye. “So I threw him out of the house. My heart is broken.”

“What in the hell?” Owen choked, spewing champagne across the counter.

I started to laugh.

“She is a complete idiot. I can’t even believe it.”

“That’s obviously what David meant, that he has it covered. We all saw her leave today, and we can all prove she didn’t have a black eye.”

“I know, but who the hell needs the aggravation.”

An updated story on Lady Melody’s demise followed, but unfortunately, the firm wasn’t mentioned. The news video showed bouquets already starting to pile up at the gates of Carstairs Manor. If I’d known she was going to die, I probably would have grabbed another souvenir or two, like that Cartier watch. Oh, well—never look back.

“Would you like another sandwich?”

“I’d love it.”

I fixed us each another—adding a little strong, hot mustard to zap up the Brie and beef, and a little swipe of soft butter on the bread. While I worked, Owen opened us each a bottle of beer and poured it into pilsner glasses. We chatted and got to know each other a little.

S  I  X  T  E  E  N

“Where are you from originally?” I asked.

“Short or long version?”

“Short—it’s late.”

“Okay,” he said between mouthfuls, “short version: I’m from Toledo, Ohio. Dad was a dockworker; Mom, a waitress. Both deceased. I went into the army out of high school, got drafted, did a stint as a supply sergeant in Vietnam. Stayed in the service, did tours of duty in Germany and New Jersey, while I completed my college degree.”

“In what?” I asked.

“Well, it’s not exactly a college degree, college degree. It’s in auto repair. But I worked the whole time in supply, and by the time I got out, I’d already set up a distribution network for my first business venture.”

“Which was?”

“Used automobile parts.”

“Handy.” I assumed most of them had been pilfered from the army motor pool. He’d been married three times—always with bad results.

“My first wife was a beautiful girl from Rhode Island. Linda. We didn’t have any money, we both worked all the time. We were always exhausted. She worked the late shift at the Uniroyal plant in Trenton—we lived in base housing at Fort Dix—and one night she fell asleep on the way home and ran off the bridge. Boom. That was it. A few years later, I met Cheryl. By then I’d made some headway in the business and had a little money to spend. Cheryl was everything I ever wanted. Total babe. She was smart, beautiful, a body that wouldn’t stop—she could do things to me . . .”

“Hey,” I said. “Clean it up. This is not a fraternity house.”

“Sorry.” He seemed a little thrown by my tone but picked himself up quickly. “Okay, she was a lot of fun to be with. We had a ball. We got married in Las Vegas, one of those Elvis chapels—one of those silly things you do when you’re a kid—and went to the Grand Canyon for our honeymoon.” Owen stopped and shook his head. “Uh,” he cleared his throat. “Never mind. Anyhow, then I end up with Tina, the bad girl from San Juan.” He looked at me with a wry smile. “I think I’m pretty much done with marriage. And I’m pretty much done with women under forty. I can’t take the dumb-ness anymore.”

“I wouldn’t make any big declarations if I were you.” I laughed. “I think you’ll stick to that plan till about, oh, tomorrow afternoon when some babe will call.”

“You’re probably right. How old are you?”

“Over forty.”

We both laughed.

“Okay, your turn. Where’re you from?”

I told him the authorized version of my life’s story. I left out basically everything that was true, except the part about being from Oklahoma. “My father was head of North Sea exploration for Phillips Petroleum, and we were transferred to London from Bartlesville when I was sixteen. I just never went back.”

“Which way’s the head?” he asked when I was done.

“I can tell you’ve found my personal history absolutely gripping.”

He laughed. “You’re a real fanatic about manners, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“Don’t you ever lighten up?”

I shook my head.

“Okay. That was great, Kick, a real cliff-hanger. Which way’s the head?”

“Right down the hall.”

It was shortly before midnight.

When he hadn’t returned after about five minutes, I went to find him. He was in my bedroom, studying the painting over the mantel, a minor Impressionist. A gift from Sir Cramner.

“This room is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I answered.

My bedroom is beautiful, a secure little boudoir wrapped like a gift—top to bottom, head to toe—in salmon pink and champagne paisley, all pulled together in fine pleats to the center of the ceiling and crowned by a Baccarat chandelier with crystal drops the size of hen’s eggs. The gentle, calming paisley is everywhere: on the bed, headboard, and lining the two walls of bookcases which flank the room.

Seeing a stranger in my kitchen had startled me, but seeing one in my bedroom caught me completely off guard. Invitations to my bedroom were tougher to come by than invitations to commoners to spend Christmas at Balmoral. Virtually impossible. This would never do.